[Fic] 34 Days in New Mexico [3/6]
Nov. 7th, 2009 02:34 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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criminalxmindsTitle: 34 Days in New Mexico [3/6]
Author: Laekin
Rating: FRT
Pairing: Gen, focus on the Friendship/Bromance between Aaron Hotchner and John Blackwolf.
Summary: Where Hotch went for those 34 days after Foyet's attack.
Author Notes: Again, I can not thank everybody enough for taking a moment to let me know you're enjoying this story! Trying to keep up with a post every other day!
It is now time for a bit of a case to add into the mix! ;)
I also need to give big, HUGE props to my beta![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cala_jane who is tasked with keeping me on track both for the case as well as the character development.
I in no way own any rights to the Criminal Mind characters or their universe, I'm just hobby playing in the sandbox.
Cross posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
bau_fic
Over the next couple of weeks, Hotchner slept more than he figured he’d slept in the past five years. He attributed part of it to depression but mostly, his body simply needed to heal and was telling him in no uncertain terms that it was taking a break and his mind could just cope. When he was awake, he forced himself to move about, getting out of the house and poking around the Reservation, sometimes even sitting in the classroom and listening to the lessons taught by Blackwolf or Jane Bear.
And of course, he bantered with Blackwolf. It was a combination of sharpening wits shaken by trauma and a familiar pattern of interaction that helped Hotch pull himself away from the alien isolation left in the wake of Foyet’s attack. However, despite the way it lurked, just beneath the surface like a shark, the conversation from the first night wasn’t mentioned again. Similarly, Blackwolf "slept" through Hotch’s nightmares respectful of the fact that if it was particularly bad, Hotch would surface from the bedroom and "accidentally" bang the fridge door too hard waking Blackwolf up.
On those nights, they’d sit up with coffee and discuss the merits of profiling dirt, Native American history or occasionally debate the pros and cons of various current legislations involving Native American or Apache interest. They would talk about just about anything, except what had woken Hotch up, left him drenched in a cold sweat and seeking the light of the living room, the comfort of his friend’s stalwart presence.
For about the first week, Hotch tried to call Washington but Garcia threatened his ties. It wasn't that Hotch was particularly concerned about the threats but it was easier to just humor her. Reid would jabber about everything but work, Prentiss diplomatically hung up on him, JJ sweetly disconnected him, Morgan transferred him to Rossi and Rossi told him to enjoy the countryside and hung up. Between Garcia’s threats to his ties and Blackwolf idly wondering how many rocks it would take to make a crackberry ‘crack’ Hotch got the message and stopped trying to call the BAU.
Of course, this didn’t keep him from checking in with the New Mexico field agency now and again; from a pay phone. He never asked about Foyet, simply checked in on what his team was doing, where they were, were they home safe.
The truth was, as the days passed and his body strengthened, his emotional state got worse. Without the dulling effects of physical pain and exhaustion, Hotch had more time to think about Haley and Jack out there, somewhere, targets for Foyet and Foyet himself who was now orchestrating Hotch’s life. He’d never felt so completely out of control and for a control freak –yes, he was and he knew it- it was a singular living hell.
One afternoon, in the middle of the third week, Hotch found himself sitting on Blackwolf’s porch, cleaning his service weapon for what was probably the twentieth time since he’d arrived in New Mexico. His concentration was disrupted when the sound of Blackwolf’s truck careening up the driveway drew his attention. A large cloud of dust rose from the back wheels and the vehicle bounced as it was carelessly gunned up road, the whole picture screaming urgency and Hotch stood up, a worried expression on his face.
Stopping neat the house, Blackwolf rolled down the window and waved to Hotch.
“Come on; bring your creds and that hip weight of yours. There’s something I need you to see.”
Black eyebrows arching, Hotchner stood there, looking stupid for a moment.
“What?”
“Now, Captain America!”
The urgency in Blackwolf’s tone spurred Hotch into motion and he ducked into the house, digging his creds out of his go bag and pulling on a fresh t-shirt. Scooping up his holster, he realized he didn’t have a belt on and with an annoyed sigh he set it back down, set the safety and tucked the freshly cleaned weapon into the small of his back as he jogged to the truck.
“You know I’m not official in any capacity, right?” Hotch asked as he grabbed for the door when Blackwolf threw the truck in reverse and sped backwards down his driveway.
“I know that, you know that, let’s keep it our little secret.”
“John…”
“Listen, just don’t flash your creds or shoot anybody, okay?”
“Then why did you have me bring them?”
“Just in case you forget my second point and shoot someone.”
Hotch stamped down the urge to glare at his friend. He wasn’t very successful.
“Where are we going?”
“Body dump.”
“You’re such a fun date,” Hotch deadpanned.
“If you put out we can go to an autopsy later," Blackwolf teased. It was a fairly new component in their friendship but one that Hotch usually took up and fired right back at him. Blackwolf was curious as too how far Hotch would let it go this time.
“If I’m putting out there better be a good, hard interrogation in it for me.”
“Into the rough stuff are you?”
“Okay this conversation is stopping, now.”
Blackwolf nodded to himself. His friend was starting to get there. He'd deflected the conversation off earlier than he normally would but hadn't shut it down immediately.
For right now, Blackwolf would take that.
****
The body had been wrapped in a big tarp and left by the side of the road. Dust colored police cars, were parked in around the scene, creating a natural shield from any curious on lookers.
Not that there were many, this time even the lizards decided to vacate to quieter sunning grounds.
Though his gun was discreetly tucked into the back of his jeans, the hem of his shirt pulled neatly over the grip, Hotch felt strangely exposed. Not vulnerable per say but he was used to coming upon these scenes in full regalia, suit, tie, weapon on his hip and at his ankle, baton and cuffs tucked at the back of his belt.
With credentials that are barely worth more than the leather wallet they’re carried in.
Aaron Hotchner owned crime scenes but today he was a spectator, little more than a glorified civilian and it chafed at a sense of professional duty that had been dormant since Foyet’s attack.
Pushing down the disquiet, Hotch followed along behind Blackwolf as the shorter man made his way under the tape and towards the body. A quick scan of the gathered constabulary identified the Sheriff as the ranked officer on the scene.
There was no sign of a detective and in the regular course of things Hotch would politely but firmly take control of the scene, if he wasn’t on a LOA from the Bureau and the creds in his pocket little more than a permit for him to carry a concealed weapon. It was hard, harder than he’d expected, not to walk up, start the profile and mostly take control of the integrity of scene; especially when Hotch noticed a young deputy touching the tarp with his bare hands.
Blackwolf, hearing his friend making a choked noise, turned and glanced back at Hotch with an expression of 'what’? Hotch bit back the words stuck in his throat and lifted his chin in the direction of the wayward deputy. Blackwolf glanced over and then back to Hotch, giving the FBI agent a shrug of 'rookies, what are you going to do?'
Not mollified in the least, Hotch lifted his eyebrows and looked pointedly at the Sheriff. Blackwolf sighed and held up a hand, indicating that Hotch needed to just calm down. Then he addressed the Sheriff.
“New SOP I wasn’t aware of, Bill?”
“Hey there, John. Huh?” The Sheriff, Bill, looked confused for a moment till he glanced over and quickly gave the rookie a verbal ear boxing that lasted a good five minutes. “And when you’re done satisfying your curiosity, Deputy Pieghts get down to the station and have yourself fingerprinted so we can tell yours’ from the ones we really need.”
The youngster looked shamefaced as he quickly moved toward a patrol car to start unrolling crime scene tape but Hotch felt no sympathy. If nothing else, Pieghts had just learned a lesson he’d hopefully never forget for the rest of his career. Turning his attention back to Blackwolf and Sheriff Bill, Hotch drifted closer to listen in on their conversation.
“Why am I here, Bill? This isn’t my jurisdiction.”
“I know, John. But we’ve got tracks heading towards the northern edge of the Reservation,” the older police officer’s eyes flicked to the tall figure of the FBI man standing just behind the Apache and after a brief pause, he reached out his hand. “Sheriff Bill Hulaski.”
“SSA Aaron Hotchner,” Hotch answered on auto pilot, taking the man’s hand before he even realized what he’d said, his focus on the tarp and the body wrapped within. Even with his eyes shielded behind his sunglasses it wasn't hard to tell that Hotch was reviewing the scene with an experienced eye, making mental notes and probably already drawing conclusions.
“SSA? We haven’t called in the FBI,” Hulaski said, immediately suspicious and ready to defend his crime scene from the federal interloper.
“I’m not here officially,” Hotch said quickly, forcing himself to look away from the scene and to the Sheriff's face, to reassure the Sheriff. “I’m here …”
Hotch trailed off and glanced at Blackwolf. Actually, he still wasn’t sure why he was there, especially since it was going to ruffle local feathers for no purpose since nothing Hotch did at this point was official or admissible in any court of law.
“Need someone to drive my truck while I follow these tracks,” Blackwolf said without missing a beat.
“Oh,” Hulaski grunted, slightly mollified for the time being. “Well, let me know what you find at the end of the tracks.”
Emphasis on the word ‘tracks’, unspoken emphasis on don’t go sniffing around anything else, my crime scene, honestly Hotch was waiting for the day local law enforcement began to whip it out and piss on their ‘territory’.
Blackwolf was giving Hulaski that beaming, ‘I’m just a silly Injin’ smile and waiting for the man to take himself off at which point he turned and looked at Hotch.
“I do need you to drive the truck.”
“Uh huh?”
“And if you just happen to stare at the body while I get my bearings with these tracks, can’t help that now can I? Professional hazard.”
“Riiighht, and why am I staring at the body?”
“Because it’s the third one they’ve found like this, just first time the tracks have lead back towards the Reservation.”
“You realize this is a departmental political nightmare in the making, right? I’m on LOA, John and not supposed to be ‘staring’ at anything except my toes. Any evidence I might find, even if I just point it out isn’t even going to get to the jury due to points one and two and a few other procedural…”
Hotch trailed off as Blackwolf waved an impatient hand at him.
“White man talk too much,” he said in a cheeky manner, an attitude he dropped as he stepped up closer to the taller man. “Third murder like this in 6 weeks, two week span on murders. They’re not ready to call in your team but I don’t like the feel of where this is going."
Hands on his hips, Hotch looked out towards where the tracks Hulaski wanted them to follow were laid out and then back to Blackwolf. Giving the other man a small nod, he pushed his hands into his pockets and curled his shoulders, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible as he began to roam the edges of the crime scene.
Blackwolf stood and watched Hotch for a long moment. Though the tall agent was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and was trying to project an air of ‘don’t mind me’ Hotchner’s bearing still screamed authority, competence and the keen intensity of a charismatic, natural born hunter. It was like a cloak that could not be shed or even stolen from Aaron Hotchner, despite the best efforts of a twisted man like Foyet. Blackwolf wondered if his friend understood this.
Shaking his head, the Apache glanced over at the local law just to verify that they were otherwise occupied and he began to pick his way carefully around the tarp, moving to the tracks. It took him barely a minute to get a clean read on the prints and the ATV tire treads might as well have been painted in neon they were so clear to Blackwolf's keen eyes but he hunkered down and made a show of his study, mostly to give Hotchner as much time as possible with the body in the tarp.
The first thing Hotch noticed about the body, besides the fact that it was male, was the manner of death was exsanguination due to knife wounds. The taste of bile, like battery acid, rose in his throat and he had to swallow a couple of times, fighting to get his heart rate back under control. Images of Foyet, naked to the waist, sitting on his groin and smiling as he slowly pushed the knife into Aaron's abdomen, assaulted the FBI agent and Hotchner almost fled back to Blackwolf's truck.
Stop it. Get a grip, you need to do this. Hotch mentally lashed himself without mercy, glad that his sunglasses hid the way he had to close his eyes.
One breath, two and third and then Hotchner forced his eyes open, looking back down at the dead man. Again the vision of Foyet jumped into Hotch's mental eye but he ruthlessly shoved it aside. If only he could do the same with the Reaper's taunting voice.
"Maybe this will change how you profile..."
No ... No! Hotch refused to let that happen and he clamped his teeth together, ignoring the dancing memories of the man who wanted to destroy his life. Taking a step closer to the tarp, Hotch forced himself to study every last cut on the body. He noted that the man was naked, dehumanized in the way his face had been slashed to ribbons. Quick, experienced eyes noted which wounds had bled and which appeared to have been delivered post mortem, when blood was no longer being pumped through the body by a beating heart.
Hitching his jeans, as if they were the pressed slacks of one of his suits, Hotch hunkered down close to the tarp. He did it without thinking, mind already starting to churn through the evidence he could see on and around the body, the profile of the killing taking shape as if of its own accord.
"Hey!"
The Sheriff's sharp yelp shook Hotch out of his thoughts and he looked up into the man's pinched, slightly red face.
"I'm sorry, Sheriff..." he began, moving to stand.
"Listen, I don't care who you are, if you're not on this crime scene by my invitation you are no better than a civilian bystander and we don't let them come gawking at the bodies either. So I suggest, SSA that you get over to that truck and get about your chauffer duties."
For the first time since Foyet's attack, Hotch felt his own not inconsiderable arrogance surge forward and he stared down into the Sheriff's face without blinking. Off duty or not, he was still an SSA, Unit Chief of the BAU and no one spoke to Aaron Hotchner like that in a professional capacity. Even Erin Strauss knew to mind her Ps and Qs, at least to Hotch’s face, what she did behind his back was something else entirely.
Sheriff Hulaski shifted, nervously but kept his eyes on Hotch's face even if he couldn’t look into those dark sunglasses. Still, he was resolute in his determination that this was his crime scene and he wasn't giving it over to a fed to take the credit.
Despite Hulaski’s heroic show of determination or stupidity, Hotch knew in that moment that he could back the Sheriff down. He only had to continue staring at the man a few more breaths and Sheriff Bill would blink, look away, step back, give ground and there was a part of him that wanted to feel that power again. Wanted to reestablish the classic alpha dominance he felt he’d lost to Foyet.
And then, you would be little better than Foyet…
Hotch forced himself to now and then glance away, briefly.
"Of course, Sheriff. My mistake."
"Yeah, well ..." the Sheriff motioned towards the truck, his body language telling Hotch that the man was simply relieved the staring contest was over, though Hulaski wasn’t sure if he’d won or just gotten damn lucky.
With another nod, Hotch began to walk back to the truck. He glanced over at Blackwolf, caught the Apache looking at him and then Blackwolf quickly looked away, attempting to seem innocent.
Hotch glared as he climbed into the driver's seat and deliberately pushed it back as far as it would go. It was a petty little exhibition but it made Hotch feel better about the fact that a sneaky Apache of his acquaintance was obviously up to something and though Hotch had profiled the body and each member of the local law, he could not figure out what trick Blackwolf had up his sleeve.
After another brief study of the ground, Blackwolf came back to the truck and hopped into the passenger seat.
“Pair of prints, juvenile male around 170lbs, juvenile female just over 100lbs.”
“Two teenagers and a dead body? Doesn’t sound like a serial killer to me, John.”
“And they pay you for your profiling skills?”
Reaching to turn the truck over rather than answer, Hotch began to navigate the down along the edge of the tracks.
“Straight north, I think I know where the ATV went. I want to see where the girl was dropped off,” Blackwolf said and he sounded tired.
Hotch cast a glance at his friend and began to carefully drive just off to the side of the tracks so he wouldn’t contaminate them. Blackwolf rolled down the window and followed the tracks with his eyes, the dessert dust quickly dulling the rich black of his pony tail.
“You know who did this.” Hotch didn’t make it a question.
“I have suspicions,” Blackwolf responded.
“There were a lot of shallow, hesitant wounds on the body. The killer didn’t get really violent until after the man was dead,” Hotch shared his own findings.
“Stop the truck,” Blackwolf said and the FBI agent stood on the brakes bringing them to a quick halt.
Jumping out of the truck, the Apache immediately hunkered down to get a close look at the very delicate difference where the additional 100lbs had been removed from the ATV.
“This is where he dropped her off,” Blackwolf said, not bothering to look over his shoulder, knowing Hotchner would already be there.
Scanning the immediate area, Hotch frowned.
“Seems pretty remote.”
“That’s why we call it the Deadlands.”
Hotch ignored his friend’s snark, recognizing it as Blackwolf’s coping mechanism and after another study of the immediate area he picked his way carefully over the ATV tracks and walked towards a small tangle of coarse bushes.
“Got something,” he called, standing over his find and looking to the west.
Blackwolf quickly crossed to where the agent stood and again he hunkered down on his heels.
“Hoofprints, Quarterhorse.”
“If you say so, I’m more of a Mustang man myself.”
“Getting back to nature would be good for you, you know.”
“I rode a horse once, my legs didn’t straighten out for a week and Haley declared the romantic ride on the beach was actually a romance killer.”
Blackwolf chuckled.
“Little bruised were we?”
“And again, a conversation we’re not having.”
“Tell me something, Mr. Hotchner. Do you think that when the time comes you’ll even notice you’re undergoing a colonoscopy?”
“That’s enough of that, you.”
Blackwolf smirked and pointed to the west.
“She came and left from that direction. The horse was carrying more weight in than out.”
“There wasn’t enough blood at the dump site for it to have been the murder site. Did she bring him out here and then they ambushed him?”
“You asking me? You’re the big, Fed profiler; I just stare at the dirt.”
Hotch sighed and walked a few feet along the edge of the tracks, trying to build a mental picture of how things could have played out. Arms crossed, he wished Morgan or Rossi were there to walk through the scene with him, reenact the events. He knew he could ask Blackwolf to stand in but something in Hotch balked at that thought.
He didn’t want to cross the lines of friend with his team. It was a definition he needed to maintain to do the work, to be the leader of his team, to bring them all home safe and as mentally and emotionally sound as the cases allowed.
“There would be signs of a struggle, if he’d still been alive. He was a big man, easily 280lbs, even with two of them, I can’t imagine he’d just stand there and let them cut him up.”
Like I lay there, letting Foyet drive the knife…
Shaking his head, Hotch shook off the unwanted vision that jumped into his mind’s eye and he pressed his crossed arms a little more tightly against his chest.
The action was almost imperceptible but Blackwolf saw it and he stood up, taking up where Hotch had trailed off.
“So the weight difference, she had the body on the horse. Rode out here…”
“Met her accomplice on the ATV…”
“Or he went to get the ATV to meet her out here…”
“Why not just get the ATV and move the body that way? Why the horse then?”
Blackwolf thought about it for a moment and then nodded. Inwardly he smiled a little as the broken, quiet man he’d picked up at the airport was replaced by the consummate professional, that quick, intelligent mind focusing on the work, rather than collapsing in on itself and brooding.
“So, the boy was an accessory after the fact?”
Slowly, Hotch lowered his arms from their defensive cross over his chest and slid them down to his hips, his dark eyes scanning the scene.
“The shallow cuts, she wasn’t sure at first. It wasn’t until he was dead that her rage really took hold, that she felt safe enough to attack him.”
“How’d she get close enough?”
At this point, Hotch had to shrug and shake his head.
“Without a chance to see the police report that will be hard to determine. Possibly a crime of opportunity, something happened to him and she took advantage. However, if there was a secondary injury, blow to the back of the head, it could have been a premeditated attack.”
Glancing over at Blackwolf, Hotchner frowned.
“Either way, this killing doesn’t seem like the work of a serial.”
Blackwolf nodded but he continued to stand there, looking thoughtful.
Hotch knew his friend well enough that the Apache’s stoic quiet practically screamed unease.
“What is it, John?” He asked, unconsciously using a tone he’d employed when trying to coax his agents to share their thoughts.
“The tarp, the nudity, where the body was dumped, all that is consistent with the other two murders,” Blackwolf said, looking over at his friend and frowning.
“Could have read those details,” Hotch pointed out with a shrug. “Small area like this, they could have heard talk?”
Blackwolf shook his head.
“True but the face mutilation, that’s been kept away from the public, just the authorities know that detail.”
Hotch pursed his lips and looked back out across the dessert. It was standard procedure that the authorities kept certain significant details of a murder out of any papers that could be accessed by the local population. It was a way to weed out people who wanted the attention of claiming to be the killer from the actual perpetrator.
For these copy cats to have known that detail…
The two men shared a grim glance and then Blackwolf turned and started back towards the truck.
“I’ll call the Sheriff and tell him what we found out here. There’s a ranch not far to the west of here, I imagine he can handle putting the immediate pieces together.”
Frowning, Hotch trailed along, automatically heading for the driver’s side door only to be shooed back to the passenger side by the impatient wave of his friend’s hand.
“So you have any more details on the similarities between the first two killings?”
Fighting to get his seat back into the right position, Blackwolf looked over at Hotchner, a dark eyebrow lifting.
“Aren’t you off duty, not official, on the shelf…”
“I’m just…” Hotch began and then trailed off with a shrug, looking out the window.
“An obsessive workaholic.”
“Do they pay you for your profiling skills?”
“Sounded better when I said it,” Blackwolf shot back, putting the truck in gear and driving away.
Author: Laekin
Rating: FRT
Pairing: Gen, focus on the Friendship/Bromance between Aaron Hotchner and John Blackwolf.
Summary: Where Hotch went for those 34 days after Foyet's attack.
Author Notes: Again, I can not thank everybody enough for taking a moment to let me know you're enjoying this story! Trying to keep up with a post every other day!
It is now time for a bit of a case to add into the mix! ;)
I also need to give big, HUGE props to my beta
cala_jane who is tasked with keeping me on track both for the case as well as the character development. I in no way own any rights to the Criminal Mind characters or their universe, I'm just hobby playing in the sandbox.
Cross posted to
bau_ficOver the next couple of weeks, Hotchner slept more than he figured he’d slept in the past five years. He attributed part of it to depression but mostly, his body simply needed to heal and was telling him in no uncertain terms that it was taking a break and his mind could just cope. When he was awake, he forced himself to move about, getting out of the house and poking around the Reservation, sometimes even sitting in the classroom and listening to the lessons taught by Blackwolf or Jane Bear.
And of course, he bantered with Blackwolf. It was a combination of sharpening wits shaken by trauma and a familiar pattern of interaction that helped Hotch pull himself away from the alien isolation left in the wake of Foyet’s attack. However, despite the way it lurked, just beneath the surface like a shark, the conversation from the first night wasn’t mentioned again. Similarly, Blackwolf "slept" through Hotch’s nightmares respectful of the fact that if it was particularly bad, Hotch would surface from the bedroom and "accidentally" bang the fridge door too hard waking Blackwolf up.
On those nights, they’d sit up with coffee and discuss the merits of profiling dirt, Native American history or occasionally debate the pros and cons of various current legislations involving Native American or Apache interest. They would talk about just about anything, except what had woken Hotch up, left him drenched in a cold sweat and seeking the light of the living room, the comfort of his friend’s stalwart presence.
For about the first week, Hotch tried to call Washington but Garcia threatened his ties. It wasn't that Hotch was particularly concerned about the threats but it was easier to just humor her. Reid would jabber about everything but work, Prentiss diplomatically hung up on him, JJ sweetly disconnected him, Morgan transferred him to Rossi and Rossi told him to enjoy the countryside and hung up. Between Garcia’s threats to his ties and Blackwolf idly wondering how many rocks it would take to make a crackberry ‘crack’ Hotch got the message and stopped trying to call the BAU.
Of course, this didn’t keep him from checking in with the New Mexico field agency now and again; from a pay phone. He never asked about Foyet, simply checked in on what his team was doing, where they were, were they home safe.
The truth was, as the days passed and his body strengthened, his emotional state got worse. Without the dulling effects of physical pain and exhaustion, Hotch had more time to think about Haley and Jack out there, somewhere, targets for Foyet and Foyet himself who was now orchestrating Hotch’s life. He’d never felt so completely out of control and for a control freak –yes, he was and he knew it- it was a singular living hell.
One afternoon, in the middle of the third week, Hotch found himself sitting on Blackwolf’s porch, cleaning his service weapon for what was probably the twentieth time since he’d arrived in New Mexico. His concentration was disrupted when the sound of Blackwolf’s truck careening up the driveway drew his attention. A large cloud of dust rose from the back wheels and the vehicle bounced as it was carelessly gunned up road, the whole picture screaming urgency and Hotch stood up, a worried expression on his face.
Stopping neat the house, Blackwolf rolled down the window and waved to Hotch.
“Come on; bring your creds and that hip weight of yours. There’s something I need you to see.”
Black eyebrows arching, Hotchner stood there, looking stupid for a moment.
“What?”
“Now, Captain America!”
The urgency in Blackwolf’s tone spurred Hotch into motion and he ducked into the house, digging his creds out of his go bag and pulling on a fresh t-shirt. Scooping up his holster, he realized he didn’t have a belt on and with an annoyed sigh he set it back down, set the safety and tucked the freshly cleaned weapon into the small of his back as he jogged to the truck.
“You know I’m not official in any capacity, right?” Hotch asked as he grabbed for the door when Blackwolf threw the truck in reverse and sped backwards down his driveway.
“I know that, you know that, let’s keep it our little secret.”
“John…”
“Listen, just don’t flash your creds or shoot anybody, okay?”
“Then why did you have me bring them?”
“Just in case you forget my second point and shoot someone.”
Hotch stamped down the urge to glare at his friend. He wasn’t very successful.
“Where are we going?”
“Body dump.”
“You’re such a fun date,” Hotch deadpanned.
“If you put out we can go to an autopsy later," Blackwolf teased. It was a fairly new component in their friendship but one that Hotch usually took up and fired right back at him. Blackwolf was curious as too how far Hotch would let it go this time.
“If I’m putting out there better be a good, hard interrogation in it for me.”
“Into the rough stuff are you?”
“Okay this conversation is stopping, now.”
Blackwolf nodded to himself. His friend was starting to get there. He'd deflected the conversation off earlier than he normally would but hadn't shut it down immediately.
For right now, Blackwolf would take that.
The body had been wrapped in a big tarp and left by the side of the road. Dust colored police cars, were parked in around the scene, creating a natural shield from any curious on lookers.
Not that there were many, this time even the lizards decided to vacate to quieter sunning grounds.
Though his gun was discreetly tucked into the back of his jeans, the hem of his shirt pulled neatly over the grip, Hotch felt strangely exposed. Not vulnerable per say but he was used to coming upon these scenes in full regalia, suit, tie, weapon on his hip and at his ankle, baton and cuffs tucked at the back of his belt.
With credentials that are barely worth more than the leather wallet they’re carried in.
Aaron Hotchner owned crime scenes but today he was a spectator, little more than a glorified civilian and it chafed at a sense of professional duty that had been dormant since Foyet’s attack.
Pushing down the disquiet, Hotch followed along behind Blackwolf as the shorter man made his way under the tape and towards the body. A quick scan of the gathered constabulary identified the Sheriff as the ranked officer on the scene.
There was no sign of a detective and in the regular course of things Hotch would politely but firmly take control of the scene, if he wasn’t on a LOA from the Bureau and the creds in his pocket little more than a permit for him to carry a concealed weapon. It was hard, harder than he’d expected, not to walk up, start the profile and mostly take control of the integrity of scene; especially when Hotch noticed a young deputy touching the tarp with his bare hands.
Blackwolf, hearing his friend making a choked noise, turned and glanced back at Hotch with an expression of 'what’? Hotch bit back the words stuck in his throat and lifted his chin in the direction of the wayward deputy. Blackwolf glanced over and then back to Hotch, giving the FBI agent a shrug of 'rookies, what are you going to do?'
Not mollified in the least, Hotch lifted his eyebrows and looked pointedly at the Sheriff. Blackwolf sighed and held up a hand, indicating that Hotch needed to just calm down. Then he addressed the Sheriff.
“New SOP I wasn’t aware of, Bill?”
“Hey there, John. Huh?” The Sheriff, Bill, looked confused for a moment till he glanced over and quickly gave the rookie a verbal ear boxing that lasted a good five minutes. “And when you’re done satisfying your curiosity, Deputy Pieghts get down to the station and have yourself fingerprinted so we can tell yours’ from the ones we really need.”
The youngster looked shamefaced as he quickly moved toward a patrol car to start unrolling crime scene tape but Hotch felt no sympathy. If nothing else, Pieghts had just learned a lesson he’d hopefully never forget for the rest of his career. Turning his attention back to Blackwolf and Sheriff Bill, Hotch drifted closer to listen in on their conversation.
“Why am I here, Bill? This isn’t my jurisdiction.”
“I know, John. But we’ve got tracks heading towards the northern edge of the Reservation,” the older police officer’s eyes flicked to the tall figure of the FBI man standing just behind the Apache and after a brief pause, he reached out his hand. “Sheriff Bill Hulaski.”
“SSA Aaron Hotchner,” Hotch answered on auto pilot, taking the man’s hand before he even realized what he’d said, his focus on the tarp and the body wrapped within. Even with his eyes shielded behind his sunglasses it wasn't hard to tell that Hotch was reviewing the scene with an experienced eye, making mental notes and probably already drawing conclusions.
“SSA? We haven’t called in the FBI,” Hulaski said, immediately suspicious and ready to defend his crime scene from the federal interloper.
“I’m not here officially,” Hotch said quickly, forcing himself to look away from the scene and to the Sheriff's face, to reassure the Sheriff. “I’m here …”
Hotch trailed off and glanced at Blackwolf. Actually, he still wasn’t sure why he was there, especially since it was going to ruffle local feathers for no purpose since nothing Hotch did at this point was official or admissible in any court of law.
“Need someone to drive my truck while I follow these tracks,” Blackwolf said without missing a beat.
“Oh,” Hulaski grunted, slightly mollified for the time being. “Well, let me know what you find at the end of the tracks.”
Emphasis on the word ‘tracks’, unspoken emphasis on don’t go sniffing around anything else, my crime scene, honestly Hotch was waiting for the day local law enforcement began to whip it out and piss on their ‘territory’.
Blackwolf was giving Hulaski that beaming, ‘I’m just a silly Injin’ smile and waiting for the man to take himself off at which point he turned and looked at Hotch.
“I do need you to drive the truck.”
“Uh huh?”
“And if you just happen to stare at the body while I get my bearings with these tracks, can’t help that now can I? Professional hazard.”
“Riiighht, and why am I staring at the body?”
“Because it’s the third one they’ve found like this, just first time the tracks have lead back towards the Reservation.”
“You realize this is a departmental political nightmare in the making, right? I’m on LOA, John and not supposed to be ‘staring’ at anything except my toes. Any evidence I might find, even if I just point it out isn’t even going to get to the jury due to points one and two and a few other procedural…”
Hotch trailed off as Blackwolf waved an impatient hand at him.
“White man talk too much,” he said in a cheeky manner, an attitude he dropped as he stepped up closer to the taller man. “Third murder like this in 6 weeks, two week span on murders. They’re not ready to call in your team but I don’t like the feel of where this is going."
Hands on his hips, Hotch looked out towards where the tracks Hulaski wanted them to follow were laid out and then back to Blackwolf. Giving the other man a small nod, he pushed his hands into his pockets and curled his shoulders, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible as he began to roam the edges of the crime scene.
Blackwolf stood and watched Hotch for a long moment. Though the tall agent was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and was trying to project an air of ‘don’t mind me’ Hotchner’s bearing still screamed authority, competence and the keen intensity of a charismatic, natural born hunter. It was like a cloak that could not be shed or even stolen from Aaron Hotchner, despite the best efforts of a twisted man like Foyet. Blackwolf wondered if his friend understood this.
Shaking his head, the Apache glanced over at the local law just to verify that they were otherwise occupied and he began to pick his way carefully around the tarp, moving to the tracks. It took him barely a minute to get a clean read on the prints and the ATV tire treads might as well have been painted in neon they were so clear to Blackwolf's keen eyes but he hunkered down and made a show of his study, mostly to give Hotchner as much time as possible with the body in the tarp.
The first thing Hotch noticed about the body, besides the fact that it was male, was the manner of death was exsanguination due to knife wounds. The taste of bile, like battery acid, rose in his throat and he had to swallow a couple of times, fighting to get his heart rate back under control. Images of Foyet, naked to the waist, sitting on his groin and smiling as he slowly pushed the knife into Aaron's abdomen, assaulted the FBI agent and Hotchner almost fled back to Blackwolf's truck.
Stop it. Get a grip, you need to do this. Hotch mentally lashed himself without mercy, glad that his sunglasses hid the way he had to close his eyes.
One breath, two and third and then Hotchner forced his eyes open, looking back down at the dead man. Again the vision of Foyet jumped into Hotch's mental eye but he ruthlessly shoved it aside. If only he could do the same with the Reaper's taunting voice.
"Maybe this will change how you profile..."
No ... No! Hotch refused to let that happen and he clamped his teeth together, ignoring the dancing memories of the man who wanted to destroy his life. Taking a step closer to the tarp, Hotch forced himself to study every last cut on the body. He noted that the man was naked, dehumanized in the way his face had been slashed to ribbons. Quick, experienced eyes noted which wounds had bled and which appeared to have been delivered post mortem, when blood was no longer being pumped through the body by a beating heart.
Hitching his jeans, as if they were the pressed slacks of one of his suits, Hotch hunkered down close to the tarp. He did it without thinking, mind already starting to churn through the evidence he could see on and around the body, the profile of the killing taking shape as if of its own accord.
"Hey!"
The Sheriff's sharp yelp shook Hotch out of his thoughts and he looked up into the man's pinched, slightly red face.
"I'm sorry, Sheriff..." he began, moving to stand.
"Listen, I don't care who you are, if you're not on this crime scene by my invitation you are no better than a civilian bystander and we don't let them come gawking at the bodies either. So I suggest, SSA that you get over to that truck and get about your chauffer duties."
For the first time since Foyet's attack, Hotch felt his own not inconsiderable arrogance surge forward and he stared down into the Sheriff's face without blinking. Off duty or not, he was still an SSA, Unit Chief of the BAU and no one spoke to Aaron Hotchner like that in a professional capacity. Even Erin Strauss knew to mind her Ps and Qs, at least to Hotch’s face, what she did behind his back was something else entirely.
Sheriff Hulaski shifted, nervously but kept his eyes on Hotch's face even if he couldn’t look into those dark sunglasses. Still, he was resolute in his determination that this was his crime scene and he wasn't giving it over to a fed to take the credit.
Despite Hulaski’s heroic show of determination or stupidity, Hotch knew in that moment that he could back the Sheriff down. He only had to continue staring at the man a few more breaths and Sheriff Bill would blink, look away, step back, give ground and there was a part of him that wanted to feel that power again. Wanted to reestablish the classic alpha dominance he felt he’d lost to Foyet.
And then, you would be little better than Foyet…
Hotch forced himself to now and then glance away, briefly.
"Of course, Sheriff. My mistake."
"Yeah, well ..." the Sheriff motioned towards the truck, his body language telling Hotch that the man was simply relieved the staring contest was over, though Hulaski wasn’t sure if he’d won or just gotten damn lucky.
With another nod, Hotch began to walk back to the truck. He glanced over at Blackwolf, caught the Apache looking at him and then Blackwolf quickly looked away, attempting to seem innocent.
Hotch glared as he climbed into the driver's seat and deliberately pushed it back as far as it would go. It was a petty little exhibition but it made Hotch feel better about the fact that a sneaky Apache of his acquaintance was obviously up to something and though Hotch had profiled the body and each member of the local law, he could not figure out what trick Blackwolf had up his sleeve.
After another brief study of the ground, Blackwolf came back to the truck and hopped into the passenger seat.
“Pair of prints, juvenile male around 170lbs, juvenile female just over 100lbs.”
“Two teenagers and a dead body? Doesn’t sound like a serial killer to me, John.”
“And they pay you for your profiling skills?”
Reaching to turn the truck over rather than answer, Hotch began to navigate the down along the edge of the tracks.
“Straight north, I think I know where the ATV went. I want to see where the girl was dropped off,” Blackwolf said and he sounded tired.
Hotch cast a glance at his friend and began to carefully drive just off to the side of the tracks so he wouldn’t contaminate them. Blackwolf rolled down the window and followed the tracks with his eyes, the dessert dust quickly dulling the rich black of his pony tail.
“You know who did this.” Hotch didn’t make it a question.
“I have suspicions,” Blackwolf responded.
“There were a lot of shallow, hesitant wounds on the body. The killer didn’t get really violent until after the man was dead,” Hotch shared his own findings.
“Stop the truck,” Blackwolf said and the FBI agent stood on the brakes bringing them to a quick halt.
Jumping out of the truck, the Apache immediately hunkered down to get a close look at the very delicate difference where the additional 100lbs had been removed from the ATV.
“This is where he dropped her off,” Blackwolf said, not bothering to look over his shoulder, knowing Hotchner would already be there.
Scanning the immediate area, Hotch frowned.
“Seems pretty remote.”
“That’s why we call it the Deadlands.”
Hotch ignored his friend’s snark, recognizing it as Blackwolf’s coping mechanism and after another study of the immediate area he picked his way carefully over the ATV tracks and walked towards a small tangle of coarse bushes.
“Got something,” he called, standing over his find and looking to the west.
Blackwolf quickly crossed to where the agent stood and again he hunkered down on his heels.
“Hoofprints, Quarterhorse.”
“If you say so, I’m more of a Mustang man myself.”
“Getting back to nature would be good for you, you know.”
“I rode a horse once, my legs didn’t straighten out for a week and Haley declared the romantic ride on the beach was actually a romance killer.”
Blackwolf chuckled.
“Little bruised were we?”
“And again, a conversation we’re not having.”
“Tell me something, Mr. Hotchner. Do you think that when the time comes you’ll even notice you’re undergoing a colonoscopy?”
“That’s enough of that, you.”
Blackwolf smirked and pointed to the west.
“She came and left from that direction. The horse was carrying more weight in than out.”
“There wasn’t enough blood at the dump site for it to have been the murder site. Did she bring him out here and then they ambushed him?”
“You asking me? You’re the big, Fed profiler; I just stare at the dirt.”
Hotch sighed and walked a few feet along the edge of the tracks, trying to build a mental picture of how things could have played out. Arms crossed, he wished Morgan or Rossi were there to walk through the scene with him, reenact the events. He knew he could ask Blackwolf to stand in but something in Hotch balked at that thought.
He didn’t want to cross the lines of friend with his team. It was a definition he needed to maintain to do the work, to be the leader of his team, to bring them all home safe and as mentally and emotionally sound as the cases allowed.
“There would be signs of a struggle, if he’d still been alive. He was a big man, easily 280lbs, even with two of them, I can’t imagine he’d just stand there and let them cut him up.”
Like I lay there, letting Foyet drive the knife…
Shaking his head, Hotch shook off the unwanted vision that jumped into his mind’s eye and he pressed his crossed arms a little more tightly against his chest.
The action was almost imperceptible but Blackwolf saw it and he stood up, taking up where Hotch had trailed off.
“So the weight difference, she had the body on the horse. Rode out here…”
“Met her accomplice on the ATV…”
“Or he went to get the ATV to meet her out here…”
“Why not just get the ATV and move the body that way? Why the horse then?”
Blackwolf thought about it for a moment and then nodded. Inwardly he smiled a little as the broken, quiet man he’d picked up at the airport was replaced by the consummate professional, that quick, intelligent mind focusing on the work, rather than collapsing in on itself and brooding.
“So, the boy was an accessory after the fact?”
Slowly, Hotch lowered his arms from their defensive cross over his chest and slid them down to his hips, his dark eyes scanning the scene.
“The shallow cuts, she wasn’t sure at first. It wasn’t until he was dead that her rage really took hold, that she felt safe enough to attack him.”
“How’d she get close enough?”
At this point, Hotch had to shrug and shake his head.
“Without a chance to see the police report that will be hard to determine. Possibly a crime of opportunity, something happened to him and she took advantage. However, if there was a secondary injury, blow to the back of the head, it could have been a premeditated attack.”
Glancing over at Blackwolf, Hotchner frowned.
“Either way, this killing doesn’t seem like the work of a serial.”
Blackwolf nodded but he continued to stand there, looking thoughtful.
Hotch knew his friend well enough that the Apache’s stoic quiet practically screamed unease.
“What is it, John?” He asked, unconsciously using a tone he’d employed when trying to coax his agents to share their thoughts.
“The tarp, the nudity, where the body was dumped, all that is consistent with the other two murders,” Blackwolf said, looking over at his friend and frowning.
“Could have read those details,” Hotch pointed out with a shrug. “Small area like this, they could have heard talk?”
Blackwolf shook his head.
“True but the face mutilation, that’s been kept away from the public, just the authorities know that detail.”
Hotch pursed his lips and looked back out across the dessert. It was standard procedure that the authorities kept certain significant details of a murder out of any papers that could be accessed by the local population. It was a way to weed out people who wanted the attention of claiming to be the killer from the actual perpetrator.
For these copy cats to have known that detail…
The two men shared a grim glance and then Blackwolf turned and started back towards the truck.
“I’ll call the Sheriff and tell him what we found out here. There’s a ranch not far to the west of here, I imagine he can handle putting the immediate pieces together.”
Frowning, Hotch trailed along, automatically heading for the driver’s side door only to be shooed back to the passenger side by the impatient wave of his friend’s hand.
“So you have any more details on the similarities between the first two killings?”
Fighting to get his seat back into the right position, Blackwolf looked over at Hotchner, a dark eyebrow lifting.
“Aren’t you off duty, not official, on the shelf…”
“I’m just…” Hotch began and then trailed off with a shrug, looking out the window.
“An obsessive workaholic.”
“Do they pay you for your profiling skills?”
“Sounded better when I said it,” Blackwolf shot back, putting the truck in gear and driving away.
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